


Icarus

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against the sky he’s a three-pronged silhouette, like a crown; with his wings folded against him, his back between them is almost like a simple stem they’re attached to, these huge shapes rising sharp above him, dark and barely visible; the only reason Dean notices them at all is because they blot out the pinpricks of the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

Against the sky he’s a three-pronged silhouette, like a crown; with his wings folded against him, his back between them is almost like a simple stem they’re attached to, these huge shapes rising sharp above him, dark and barely visible; the only reason Dean notices them at all is because they blot out the pinpricks of the stars.

The angel turns mutely when Dean walks towards him. He’s sitting on the cold car, and Dean doesn’t even care about smudging her sheen when he trails a hand along her long, sleek hood to come to stand just behind Castiel, and marvel at the thing he is in this moment just before the sun rises, when Dean thought no one else would be awake.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “I didn’t know you were out here.” He doesn’t talk about them because there’s nothing to say; they’re wings, like bird’s wings, feathered and gloried and gigantic, and they ripple in breezes like the surface of the black ocean, like endless strands of coal-black grass.

“I didn’t mean to come.” Castiel murmurs, and he seems muffled by them. When Dean draws close he can hear a noise, a low whining, like electrical static; like Castiel’s Voice, when he first tried to speak with him, almost two years ago, now.

“You good?” Dean asks, and knows from the wearied slant of the angel’s shoulders that it’s the wrong question. He stands at the edge of the car, on the edge of this long highway, and digs a furrow in the loose dirt with his boot. Castiel shudders all over; root to tip of his wings, a great rolling motion, the wind from it buffeting Dean. He inches closer and the noise, the whirr, gets louder, though infinitesimally so.  He says, “Cas?” And the angel, audibly, sighs. His trenchcoat lies folded on the car beside him; he’s perched on the edge, next to the driver’s window, staring out at the flat horizon, though at this angle, Dean can’t see his face, just yet. He reaches forward – doesn’t know why, only that it seems the right thing to do – and Castiel, like a creature spooked, flinches immediately away.

Dean rounds the edge of the car – the edge of Castiel’s wing, thrumming with heat – and comes to stand beside him. Gentle as anything, as if the wings weren’t twice the size of Dean himself, colossal and shadowlike, Castiel moves them so that Dean can sit, trailing his feathers back, clearing a space. When Dean comes to rest, beside him, he unfurls them both – the span must be fifty, sixty feet long; they outrun the car itself by miles, spreading out so far that from here, almost against them, Dean can’t see the very edge. They’re warm, close to his back, just like he thought they might be; just like Castiel; their surface cold steel from a distance, but humming with blood heat close up.

“I fell.” Castiel says, softly. Dean looks at him, sharp.

“You  _Fell?”_ he says, aghast, and the angel chuckles bitterly.

“Out of the sky.” He clarifies, and looks up, as he says it. “But I’m Falling, too.”

“So, what, are you  _okay_? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” He says, quietly. Dean tilts his face up to look at the wing, and it blends with the night; its texture the only differentiator, thick and soft and shiny, the sky dull and listless by comparison. Here, truly underneath them, their warmth bleeding against his back, Dean can  _hear_ the Grace inside him. He wonders if Castiel always sounds like this; he wonders why he never listened, before.

He turns, swivelling his body on the car, the metal squeaking under his jeans, breaking the moment’s peace. Castiel smirks, if only slightly. Dean reaches for the wing, again – slower. He looks at the wing as he does it, then – bare hair’s width from the body of it, so warm it’s electric, burning – he looks to Castiel.

“Can I?” he asks, because there is a nakedness to Castiel in his shirtsleeves, to him with his wings in plain sight. Dean doesn’t think – though he could be mistaken – that if Sam had come out of the motel and found him, they’d still be here.

“If you want.” The angel replies, carefully casual – but his voice is low. When Dean presses his hand forward – touches it, finally, this incongruous extra limb, the limb of an angel – not like a network of feathers, like he expected, but, rather, like the warm, heart-beat breast of a bird or a dog, so alive he almost believes he feels a network of organs, of veins, thumping beneath it. Castiel draws a breath, shaky, and the wing, against Dean’s pressing, presses  _back._

“It’s weird.” He says, quietly, and shifts on the car – clambers up onto it to kneel with his feet underneath him. He lifts his other hand, and presses it beside the first, the two pale and in parallel, dwarfed by the sheer enormousness of Castiel’s wing. He almost doesn’t notice Castiel make sound – but he feels it. Feels the throbbing of the wing briefly cease, as if all the blood, the heat inside it, has briefly frozen and then recovered itself. He looks at Castiel, a question, and the eyes that meet his in reply are open, honest, with guilt and shame. “It’s –“ he can’t finish, because Castiel’s mouth is open a little, his brows knitted together in anticipation, in grief.

Dean – with his hands against what he realises, suddenly, is Castiel’s  _body;_ not Jimmy’s, not a vessel’s but his actual body, warm and  _real_ and alive, and  _feeling_ this – draws one of them away.

He misses the warmth immediately, the night air pressing itself quickly against his palm. He reaches across and fits it, quickly, against the side of Castiel’s borrowed face. He isn’t cold, any more.

His thumb skirts the edge of Castiel’s mouth, strange on the indent, like a fish-hook, or the slit of a scar. The wing pushes, mindless, wanting, against his other hand.

“Cas.” He says, and opens his mouth to speak again but the wing  _pushes_ hard; no enough to tip him forward, but enough to tell him everything about the wary, hesitant expression on the angel’s face.

He moves his thumb to brush against the rise of Castiel’s lip.

He nods.

Slowly – painfully slowly, resolute and sure, the angel reaches up with his hands.  His fingers  fold against the collar of Dean’s shirt;  he draws his wings around the both of them, and the sky above winks out instantaneously, draws a blank.

Dean breathes slow against the angel’s face, mouth fit close to Castiel’s , not yet bridging the gap, and this is just the precipice.

Dean, feathers between his fingers, wants to  _drop._

He doesn’t know who moves first; who instigates the slide, who pushes that first kiss against their mouths. Perhaps they move together – perhaps the wings tip them forward, both, the black cocoon drawn tight and stifling-hot around them, blistering on the skin of Dean’s back. Dean fists his hand in the feathers and the angel makes a noise – chokes half a sob against Dean’s mouth, and he pulls, reluctantly, away. Looks at him. “Sorry.”

“No. No-“ Castiel can’t gesture with his hands; they’re wound in the fabric of Dean’s shirt, bound up against him. He just says,  _No, no,_  and Dean realises he’s misunderstood.

He dips forward; kisses him again, eyes shut, and then trails his hand down the wing; slick feathers sliding between his fingers, down and down as far as he can reach, thinking only distantly of how the texture changes; short feathers to long, wide ones, like the long, trailing skirts of a dress. “Cas.” He says, again. Castiel just kisses him.

His hand leaves Castiel’s face and he slides his arm over the angel’s shoulder – hooks his elbow around his neck to crowd as close as possible. No one can see what he’s doing here but Castiel; to everyone else they’re just a car; just two huge, folded wings, invisible in the darkness, and Dean is ragged at the thought – he breaks the kiss, ducks his head and mouths against the line of Castiel’s neck.

Something in him has been waiting for so  _long._

“Cas.” He says, yet again, below his ear. His hand trails lines and furrows through the wall of feathers, and with each stroke Castiel breathes in, pulls him harder against him, pulls him closer, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He says, brokenly, Dean’s name in return. 

Dean presses a soft, chaste kiss below his earlobe and lifts his head to face him, again. The wings are folded over, crossed; one long, delicately curved feather lies pretty, decorative, on the cotton of Dean’s t-shirt, against his shoulder. “This is  _you.”_ He says, chest to chest with Castiel, and moves his legs to bracket Castiel’s thigh with his knees. “Just you.” He says, again, and feels stupid. The angel nods silently. “ _Cas.”_ He says, because he can’t seem to stop, and he can’t ask, why fall, can’t ask, why  _me,_ why us, why not stay  _beautiful;_ why tear away this sheen of silk in favour of dirt, in favour of the dirt on Dean? 

But he doesn’t want to know the answer, anyway.

The angel tears at him; scrabbles his fingers against Dean’s skin, pressing blunt against his hips, his shoulders; he slides his hands up the back of Dean’s shirt, his elbows on Dean’s waist, digging, and flattens both palms to the wings of his shoulderblades.

Dean tugs lightly on the wing and the noise Castiel makes is a  _shout;_ Dean shushes him, desperately, but coaxes him to open his mouth, slides his tongue against Castiel’s and tugs, again, and swallows the noise whole, this time. Castiel is hard against his knee and Dean is breathless, unsure; he tugs again and then stops, and Castiel breaks away and says “Do it,  _I feel it_ , _”_ and that is that – in his fist the feathers are spiky, soft as well, a thousand bending black spines, and Castiel  _shakes_ when he drags his hand down.

Castiel drags his hands, nails, raggedly down Dean’s back and then splays them against the flare of his hips; he works the button of his jeans open and Dean’s breath hitches against Castiel’s mouth, fingers tightening on the feathers; Castiel murmurs in answer; and his eyes are wide open, honest, on Dean’s, as he reaches a hand between them; takes hold of Dean’s cock and strokes him, fast, in time.

It’s dry; the heat from the wings isn’t hot enough to sweat, and the drag of the tunnel of Castiel’s fist on his cock is sharp and almost painful, treading the edge so lightly that Dean is half dizzy – pushing his hips into Castiel’s fist and wanting to draw away almost as much. But the pain is but a pinch, and it doesn’t take long to get him wet, pre-come dribbling over Castiel’s fist, and pulling himself closer to Castiel with his arm. He’s dragging the dampness of his cock against Castiel’s shirt, through his fist, arching – and his own fist clutches at the wing, uncontrollably; he pulls a little more on the feathers with each stroke, and the angel murmurs some new noise, some new aching, painful little gasp each time.

Then Castiel cries out – breaks away from his insistent mouth, lips parted _._ His wings press closer; push them harder together, a surge, until Dean can barely breathe from the heat;  the feathers on his face, on the back of his neck, against his back, the soles of his feet, through  his shoes; a thousand crowding fingertips all hot and strong and rustling, shaking, as Dean hangs on – tugging at them still because Castiel’s hand is still moving on his cock; thumbing the slit at the head, working frenzied, irregular, his eyes wide and unbearable on Dean’s. Dean tightens his fist – uses the wing to pull himself forward, to shakily kiss Castiel’s chin, his lower lip; and Castiel comes untouched – in a sense - and the warmth spreads against Dean’s knee, jarring him.

The jolt of Castiel’s forehead hitting his chin as he slumps forward – still stroking Dean’s cock, still breathing, halting, loud – is enough to tip him over the edge, enough to make him cry out, and pull Castie tighter to himself, so the space between them – Dean’s come wet and soaking through their clothes – disappears entirely.

His hand still grips the feathers; he can’t pull it away. There’s a thread of electricity there, a hum that hasn’t ceased, and Dean loosens his grip; strokes gently down the wing, again, slow. Castiel shudders at the touch.  

 He pulls back and looks at the angel and,at a loss for anything else to do, he kisses him; first the bridge of his nose (and his hands are  _shaking_ ) – then his mouth, quick.  There’s nothing to say.

Castiel’s eyes are wide with disbelief, and Dean looks up – above them the wings list, swinging like doors shaky on their hinges. Their grip lessens; lowers; and above them, just on the crest of one, like a painted line of yellow-white, Dean can see the sun’s rise. He takes a breath like his first, climbing out of his grave; difficult, weighted; a large, liquid gasp. 

He looks down again, at the angel’s quiet, rapt face, and boneless, he drops his forehead against Castiel’s chin. The angel’s hands wander, again, under his shirt; spread themselves against his lower back.

Here; still shielded from the outside by Castiel’s wings, still warm in his arms, he knows he must watch himself.

He breathes on Castiel’s flesh, heart beating a tattoo against his marked ribs.

Here, at a loss for other light, it’s too easy to mistake Castiel for the sun; too difficult to care.

Here he could fly straight in, and not even recognise the burn, the melt.

Here, dripping and leaden-heavy, falling, twisting, to the ground – he could land, and not even realise it was too late (too late) to turn back.


End file.
